


Blood And Vengeance

by Casylum, fugitives



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casylum/pseuds/Casylum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugitives/pseuds/fugitives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boroughs of New York City have a tumultuous, bloody history, and a cordial, but uneasy truce fetters the feuding families together under the feeble reign of Don Robert Baratheon. With the abrupt death of his foremost consigliere Jon Arryn, dangerous secrets and long-festering vengeance rise to the surface from their slumber in still, deep waters and threaten to shatter those strained bonds, and throw the country’s largest city into chaos</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**PRELUDE**

 

♔

 

_Jon Arryn, The Consigliere_

 

Jon was not having a good day.

 

First, there had been the news that there was unrest among his own families’ bookies. They’d claimed that Baratheon ‘goonies’ up in the Bronx were roughing up the nest, paying off petty criminals to make the streets unsafe for their business and working with the cops to come raiding almost every game night. Stannis had denied issuing any such order, saying that it was a ‘low, dirty trick and he would never stoop to such a level even if he was swimming in a sea full of sharks with his blood pouring out like the Hudson’. Anyway he’d promised to look into the matter. Good man, Stannis, even if he always had a penchant for the dramatic. He had always been a good underboss to Robert, even when he was operating from a distance.

 

Much closer to Robert was Renly. He was the youngest capo in the stables, but his eyes gleamed with ambition every now and then. Jon was sure that he had turned his eye on his older brother’s position more than once, especially after Robert had removed--no, reassigned--Stannis back to their stronghold in the Bronx. Stannis had been less than pleased, of course, and Renly had only added salt to the wound by telling him to cheer up; at least people knew him better up in the ‘burbs they had grown up in. Renly was the careless, free-spending one, though nowhere as bad as Robert, he had his own vices too, which primarily involved leisurely activities of the sexual kind with those of the same sex. It was pretty much an open secret within the Upper East Side that Renly Baratheon’s eyes lingered longer on a good-looking man than a good-looking woman, and when he went back to his penthouse on Park Avenue after a long night of partying he had never been seen with a female companion. Jon had turned a blind eye. He didn’t think that Renly needed another lecture on how to live his life after the kind of time he’d had growing up with brothers as abrasive as Stannis and as absent as Robert. But he had been seen more frequently these days with a particular son of Mace Tyrell. He’d been more careless than usual too: choosing to go to the same clubs, the same hotels, the same restaurants--restaurants that were smack in the middle of the Upper East Side which was, as Renly should well know, Lannister territory--maybe he should have that word with him after all.

 

Then there was the matter of the Lannisters themselves. More specifically, concerning Tywin Lannister’s favourite golden kids. This one had been brought to him in the strictest confidence by Stannis himself. Jon remembered that night well. Stannis had taken Jon aside when everyone had been preoccupied with the revelry of blowing out the candles and distributing slices of Myrcella’s birthday cake, a pink-and-yellow three-tiered wonder. He had showed Jon the Baratheon photo album, dating back from when the family had first settled in New York in 1883. “Black hair,” Stannis turned the page, “black hair. Black. Black. Black hair.”

 

Jon had snorted. “So what? It ain’t odd for blonde kids to have brunette parents.”

 

“No, of course not. But look closely, Jon. Not a single person in this album has fucking black hair!” He was practically hissing.

 

“So what are you sayin’?”

 

“I’m saying!” he’d lowered his voice to a whisper. “That that kid out there blowing out candles--and her two brothers--they’re not my brothers’ kids, Jon.”

 

“Then whose kids are they?”

 

Stannis had straightened up and pursed his lips thinly. “I got a fair idea. But I need time to gather evidence.”

 

And that evidence had found its way to Jon Arryn’s hands that night. The letter had been left on his desk. ‘In strictest confidence; for the eyes of Jon Arryn only.’ Still, he couldn’t help the feeling of fear that gripped his heart so tightly that it near paralyzed him. Every wall in Robert’s manse was swathed in Lannister red-and-gold and inlaid with ears. His wife, Lysa had even grown wary of the immaculate rose bushes and had insisted that they move out and get their own place. She didn’t mind if Jon had to work late nights in order to attend to Robert’s affairs as long as she couldn’t see the eyes and hear the whispers. Jon had never paid much attention to her claims; the woman was getting more paranoid than Tiberius on the 15th of March. But now as he opened the letter with trembling hands, checking for signs that it had been tampered with before he had gotten there, he began to think that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to keep their options open.

 

He slit the envelope open with a letter opener. There was only one piece of paper, a copy of an original that was most probably in Stannis’ possession, but that was all that he needed to know.

 

“Jesus Christ...”

 

At that moment he felt something fine and sharp pierce his neck. He slapped at it, thinking that it was an insect, but his hand hit something long, cool to the touch, and... feathered at the end? He pulled it out of his neck and turned around, his jaw dropped in shock. The silhouette of a person filled the doorway as it approached him. He tried to speak--who dared to attack him in the heart of Robert’s own stronghold; oh dear God, he had to warn him, he had to warn Rob--but only a strangled whimper managed to squeak its way out of his paralysed throat.

 

♔

 

_Petyr Baelish, the money guy_

 

Evenings at the Baratheon base of operations were unquestionably dull.

 

Sure, things occurred and people talked, but very little of what they did or said was any news to Baelish, even if it was news to the people engaged in the discussions he happened to overhear. To be honest, though, he took his boredom as a mark of pride, a sign that he was doing his (unofficial) job right, even if it made the nights stretch on interminably.

 

The only relief he had from the monotony was the twenty minutes or so he was required to be in Robert’s presence to give the rundown of the day’s activity, but even that was mitigated by the fact that he was then forced to give the same speech to Jon Arryn, seemingly because the two men had no concept of joint meetings.

 

At seven thirty, Robert’s secretary, a young woman with bright blue eyes and dark hair that was a carbon replica of every woman Robert had fucked (besides his wife, and Baelish had his doubts there) since he was twenty-three, motioned for Baelish to enter the inner sanctum. He went in, stood in the same spot he always did, and gave his report. Robert pretended to listen, as he always did, nodding in the right places and knocking back fingers of whiskey in the wrong ones. When Baelish finished, Robert nodded, said something along the lines of “good work”, and waved him out.

 

Baelish turned, rolled his eyes, and strode out, giving a cursory wave to the secretary, who was more focused on her trashy romance novel than she was on the comings and goings of her boss’ underlings.

 

Six flights of stairs and a long hallway later, and he had arrived at Jon Arryn’s office. No secretary here; Jon believed that if you couldn’t do it yourself, you weren’t fit to have it done for you either. It was an annoying and shockingly naive philosophy in Baelish’s mind, but that was Jon for you.

 

He knocked on the door, expecting to hear Jon’s customary, “If you want anything, you’re going to have to open the fucking door first”, but nothing doing. He knocked again, taking the chance that Jon was simply asleep after a long day, or listening to music, or jerking off.

 

Still no answer.

 

Baelish tried the handle, found it was unlocked, as always, and decided that no matter what Jon was doing, he was going to go in there, give his report, leave, and get back to his own business. He pushed down, flung the door open, and walked in a few steps before stopping dead.

 

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, stepping back to make sure his shoes stayed clear of the slow spreading pool of blood and vomit. “The bitch actually did it.” Then he closed the door, and went back downstairs to tell Robert’s secretary to call 911.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

♔

 

_Arya Stark of Queens_

 

Arya’s normal morning routine generally went like this: wake up, roll over, check the time, say one very bad word (maybe two, depending on how late she almost was), spring out of bed like a geriatric rabbit, throw on something that seems like it matches (hard to tell in the dark), clatter down the stairs to see Sansa already dressed and ready to go, shove a piece of toast in her mouth, grab her bag from where she put it by the door (if she remembered), and sprint out like the fires of hell were on her heels, instead of just a more sedate Sansa, who took care of locking up.

 

Today, however, was different.

 

When she made it down the stairs in yesterday’s jeans and last week’s sweatshirt, Sansa wasn’t alone at the long counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. Her parents were there as well, Mom with her hair still pulled back in the braid she wore for sleeping, Dad with a face that looked years older than it had last night. Sansa looked up at the noise of Arya’s descent, and she could have sworn a look of relief passed over her sister’s face, before it smoothed out into the expression of long suffering annoyance that was her usual mien.

 

“We’re going to be late,” Sansa pointed out, as she did every morning. Arya sometimes thought she did it automatically, and wasn’t really paying attention to whether or not it’d been a one-cuss-word day, or a twofer.

 

“No, we’re not,” Arya said placidly, continuing towards the kitchen to pull out the things she needed for her morning shot of burnt grains.

 

She turned from her preparations after setting the toaster to the closest thing it got to incinerate, and leaned up against the counter. Her mother and father shared the long looks they normally employed when she brought home her report card, or Bran was caught on top of the school building (again), and then focused the combined weight of their gazes on her.

 

“Arya,” Mother began, and then stopped, hands clenching a little before smoothing out.

 

“Jon Arryn is dead,” Father said, his words dropping like stones in the relative silence of the morning. “He was found last night in his study. Robert’s asked us to the wake in Manhattan, says he needs to talk to me anyway.” He and mother shared another look, but neither of them elaborated.

 

The dinging of the toaster behind her gave Arya an excuse to move, to do something, but there was no denying that she was shocked. Jon had always been there, a little on the stern side, sure, but friends with her father and Robert Baratheon nonetheless. He was, she searched for the words while she hunted for butter in the overstuffed refrigerator, a presence. And now he was dead. She could guess what Robert wanted: for her father to take up the position Jon had, by his untimely death, left open.

 

Which, she knew, was why Sansa was staying quiet. Her father was nothing if not bullheaded in his pursuit of what he considered to be right. If Sansa spoke now, Dad might decide to pack up the family, and the whole of their extended network, and leave the city, a precipice he’d been balancing on for a few months, regardless of the Old Guard’s warnings about showing weakness and running from fights.

 

It was funny, she ultimately decided as she pulled the butter out of the fridge and bounced the hot toast from burning fingertip to fingertip, that Father, so set in his ways that he grumbled when everything wasn’t just so, was and had been one of Robert Baratheon’s oldest friends. He’d told her that he and Robert had both studied under the now dead Jon, though as far as she could tell, only Father had gained anything from it.

 

Arya smeared butter across her toast, then turned back to her family, taking a bite as she completed the movement.

 

“So,” she said, mouth full of toast and glee at Sansa’s slightly disgusted expression. “Old Jon’s dead. Do they know what killed him?” Her question was answered by yet more looks, and then a non-committal statement from her Mother that boiled down to “no, not really”. She refrained from rolling her eyes, and instead crunched down on another section of the mostly burnt bread.

 

Sansa had just opened her mouth to ask a question of her own when the basement door opened with a muffled bang, discharging a rumpled Theon Greyjoy and an equally disheveled Jon Snow. Jon, when he caught sight of her parents, mouthed a quick “sorry”, then hastened off upstairs, to the room he still kept next to Bran’s. Theon, on the other hand, made a beeline straight for the refrigerator Arya was still standing next to, and pulled it open with a rough jerk, rattling the bottles.

 

Eyes still bleary, he pulled out the rest of the loaf of bread, a bottle of mustard, a jar of mayonnaise, a pack of sliced ham, and an apple Arya was pretty sure he’d grabbed on accident, and dumped it on the counter on the far end from where Mom and Dad were sitting.

 

“Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Stark,” he mumbled, squinting for a moment at the apple before deciding it wasn’t spreadable.

 

“Good morning, Theon,” Mom said politely, with that pinch in the corner of her eyes that said she was annoyed but too polite to say it.

 

“Jon an’ me,” he yawned, slapping four slices of bread down before digging in the ham container. “We’re goin’ t’ Robb’s later. Was there anything you wanted us to bring him, tell him, whatever?” Theon looked up at Sansa and made a wiggling motion with his fingers at the drawer behind her. Sansa pulled out a butter knife, and slid it across the counter to him, her eyes meeting Arya’s and breaking into a slight roll before she caught herself.

 

“Just that I’d like for him to call me at some point,” Mom said in a very calm voice that belied the urgency that Arya knew she was feeling. Theon knew it too, because he looked up from his preparations and said, eyes and voice perfectly clear and crisp: “Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure he knows.”

 

After that, he went back to his food preparations, and Mother and Father went back to looking at each other and twitching slightly. Jon came down about ten minutes later, hair damp and curling. It was a stark change from the way it had been when he was still living at home, when Catelyn had arranged for it to be buzzed every few weeks or so. In the six years or so he’d been away, it had grown to just brush just a bit below his collar when it was dry.

 

“Mrs. Stark, Father,” Jon nodded at her parents, his tone decidedly less relaxed than Theon’s had been. He glanced over, and smiled slightly. “Sansa, Arya.”

 

“Hi, Jon,” Arya said, spraying a few toast crumbs across the island, before going over to hug him.

 

“Morning, Arya,” he said, his smile widening as he looked down at her. “How’ve you been?”

 

“Good,” she said, stepping back. “Though it’s been horribly boring without you here.”

 

Jon laughed. “It’s been over five years, Arya, I think you’re going to have to find another source of amusement than me.”

 

“But gosh, you’re just such a ball of fun,” Arya said, her face twitching as she tried to keep it still.

 

“It’s her fault, anyways,” Sansa said from behind her, “she doesn’t stick around long enough to have fun.”

 

Arya rolled her eyes and turned to reply, stopping only because Theon had finished and was walking towards her with a stack of sandwiches that threatened to top the Empire State Building. She stepped back to let him pass, and waved at Jon as he trailed him on the way out.

 

Fifteen minutes and several muttered invectives against Theon’s life and future happiness from Sansa as she cleaned up the mess he’d so thoughtfully left behind, Arya and her sister were out the door. At the bottom of their stoop, Arya stopped dead, shouted halfway down the block that she’d forgotten her Chemistry book, and dashed back inside.

 

Her book was on the table next to the door, buried under a few sheets of Rickon’s latest art projects. She was stuffing it into her bag when raised voices from the kitchen made her freeze.

 

“Ned, you cannot be serious.” Her mother’s voice was shaking in restrained anger. “He will ask you, and you cannot say no, it would be ridiculous.”

 

“Catelyn,” Father said, his voice loud enough to match her mothers, but still relatively calm, “I don’t want to do it. I will not do it.”

 

“But why?” Mother said, shifting from angry to almost desperate. “Think of the children.”

 

“I am, Catelyn. Three consiglieres have died in the last fifteen years. Three. I do not want to step into a position that is inherently likely to leave our children without a father in our current position.

 

“And you think leaving will make them safe? Ned, no one has ever left, not and lived. Look at the Targaryens--”

 

“Cat,” her father interrupted, but her mother kept going over top of him. “--Your friend Robert had them all massacred. Do you want that to happen to us?”

 

“Robert hated the Targaryens--,” Father tried again.

 

“And if you turn down this position he will hate us,” Catelyn’s voice dropped to a normal register, and Arya was unable to hear what she said next. She was about to move closer to continue listening, when she realized that yes it was a school day and yes, she was about to be spectacularly late.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered under her breath, and flew out the door towards her sister and a bus that was far, far closer than it had any right to be.

 

♔

 

_Arianne Martell of Staten Island_

 

Being a bored rich socialite was one thing, but being a bored rich socialite in Staten Island was another. Manhattan wasn’t all that far away of course (and her father still permitted them to carry out recreational activities in the city every now and then), but it was now Lannister and Baratheon territory, and more than a decade later, the Martells still couldn’t quite find it within themselves to make peace with the deaths of her aunt and cousins. Victims of savagery who had done nothing to deserve their violent ends. Gutted like beasts for slaughter, said her uncle Oberyn through gritted teeth at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, right to his brother’s face. All semblance of appetite had quickly left the table, and Trystane had to be removed from the dining table when he wouldn’t stop asking what the word ‘gutted’ and ‘slaughter’ meant.

 

Doran, of course, would have none of it. That’s crazy talk, Oberyn. You’re getting as crazy as those mad bastards, he had replied with as much venom as he could muster, but her uncle Oberyn the Red Viper, as he was called on the streets, was unfazed. Her father wasn’t in the best shape anyway, his meds doing nothing to abate the progression of his gout. If it wasn’t for the last shred of respect he still held for his brother’s still-keen intellect and the fact that the same blood flowed in both their veins, he would have taken his men with him and exacted the revenge he had longed for so long. And he would succeed, he was sure of it.

 

Arianne was less concerned about her uncle’s thirst for vengeance than her own tightly reined anger towards Doran. She wasn’t a little kid anymore. She would readily admit that in the days of her youth, i.e. high school, she had been the typical frivolous, snobbish (and popular) rich kid, convinced that she could continue the lavish and yet not-quite-so lifestyle for the rest of her life. College, however, had shaken the priorities out of her. After two years of freewheeling through classes and boys, it took a failed subject (and a particularly biting remark from Obara) for her to realize that she had been mucking around for too long.

 

Now, armed with a Business degree, no short amount of determination and ambition, and given absolutely nothing to do except organize fundraisers, charity auctions and birthday parties on behalf of the family’s name, Arianne found herself bored and frustrated. And that boredom and frustration was growing day by day. It was enough that Doran rarely spoke to her except for their weekend dinners at his beachside villa (and even those had been mostly made up of silence).

 

Today though, was different.

 

“Have you heard?”

 

“Heard what, Tyene?” Arianne waited for the manicurist to apply the final coat of nail varnish on her pinky finger and held up her hand to admire the neat finish while she moved on to the other hand.

 

“Something’s happened. I haven’t seen Dad so worked up in ages.”

 

“What? What happened?”

 

“Other than Jon Arryn’s death, I don’t know.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Jon Arryn. Robert’s right-hand man. He’s dead.”

 

“I know what a consigliere is, Tyene.” Her voice was somewhat cross. Again, her cousins had beaten her to the chase when it came to news about the family business. In some ways, she envied the amount of trust and independence her uncle had granted to his daughters. “When did you find out about this?”

 

“This morning. Dad called an emergency family meeting.” And Tyene knew Arianne’s feelings towards her father.

 

Arianne closed her eyes for a moment, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “And does... my father know about this?”

 

“Dad said that he spoke to Doran yesterday. He wanted him--my dad, that is--to try and make peace with Robert and get a place in his--” she could picture the other woman waving her hand breezily, “--little gang of capos or something, I don’t know.”

 

“But my father needs him to be here.” The realization was slowly dawning on Arianne.

 

“Naturally, Dad is skeptical about the whole thing. If he could have it his way, he’d be taking advantage of this moment of weakness and take them out when the shock’s still fresh.”

 

“Well, that’s my father for you. Listen, Tyene, if your father succeeds,” she worded her sentence with caution, “then, he’d be one of Robert’s capos, won’t he? He’d have to stay in Manhattan, right?”

 

“Ellaria won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

 

But I will, Arianne thought with no small amount of glee. With her uncle out of the picture--her uncle, who had always been her father’s right-hand man--this was her chance to prove to her father that she could be a viper in her own right.

 

There was, however, the question of getting through to her father. For as long as she could remember, their relationship had always been cordial. He had never raised his voice or his hand to her, and so had she towards him. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, nor did she despise him, although the way her cousins could call Oberyn ‘Dad’ when she could not bring herself to call her own father that would evoke emotions bordering on the latter. Arianne decided that it was time to take matters into her own hands and, instead of waiting for her father to summon her, went instead to his villa later that day.

 

The villa was one of the Martells’ many summer retreats. When Elia her dearly departed aunt had been the wife of Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to Aerys ‘The Nutjob’ Targaryen, Manhattan had been their family’s playground. Arianne wasn’t too young to forget spending almost every weekend in Central Park with Elia and her cousin, Rhaenys, although their faces were now a distant memory, shrouded by the afternoon sun and strawberry ice cream and lush green grass. Her great uncle, Lewyn would take time off from his job to join them too (he was always working, Great Uncle Lewyn, but he was always kind to her). Elia herself rarely visited the rest of her siblings in Staten Island though. If Arianne remembered correctly, her aunt and cousin had only spent one summer with them in the Water Gardens before young Aegon had been born.

 

That was a year later, and a year after that, the tragedy had taken place. The family promptly withdrew from Manhattan; taking their assets, pulling their men out and shutting down businesses as they went. The Lannisters could burn in hell for their treachery, for all they cared. At first, the family thought that it would hurt them; after all, it was payback for all the slights the selfish blonde pricks had given them over the years, but when the Lannisters had taken up with the Baratheons (a bunch of hard-talking, rough-mannered upstarts from the Bronx with absolutely none of the polished upbringing that the Martells were known for) instead--well, that had been a bitter pill for even her usually diplomatic and mild-mannered father to swallow.

 

Doran had been a force to reckon with--and still was, many would argue--but spending most of his time holing himself up in the villa these days wasn’t exactly doing much to restore the faith of his men. Is he sick? Or is he just being a coward? --I’m not surprised if it’s both, to tell ya the truth. --Aw, c’mon guys... --How’s he gonna expect us to do our jobs when he won’t even show his face? --Man’s gotta have a good reason for everything. He ain’t called Doran Martell for nuthin’... --Isn’t he like a hundred years old or something? --Hey, don’t talk shit on the boss, man.

 

Especially not around the boss’s daughter, she finished silently in her head.

 

The villa was a two-storied haven with floors of pink marble in the foyer that stretched all the way out to the backyard where the wide, oak doors were thrown open to let in the constant sea breeze that filled the house with salty beach air. Arianne removed her sunglasses and clipped them onto the collar of her yellow silk blouse, causing it to sink and expose a hint of cleavage. “Hello? Father?” she called out into the seemingly empty house. To the left and right sides of the foyer, the doors that led to the living room and the dining room respectively were shut.

 

“Miss Arianne, what a surprise,” said an unmistakable male voice coming down from the curved stairs just behind her, accompanied by a set of scuffled footsteps. Arianne took a deep breath and turned around with a dazzling smile. “Areo,” she greeted warmly as her father’s most trusted capo came to a stop just in front of her. A surprise, my ass. “I’m here to see my father. Is he out back as usual?”

 

He tilted his head to the side and nodded courteously. “As usual.”

 

That’s weird. Usually he would stall her whenever she came to visit without an invitation. She masked her confusion with a faintly surprised look. “I’ll go straight to him then.”

 

“I suggest you wait here, Miss Arianne.” Ah, there it is. “Your uncle is with him at the moment.”

 

She arched a cool eyebrow in his direction. “What is it that they have to discuss that needs this much privacy? Am I not family as well?” That last sentence was carefully laced with the slightest hint of venom. It did the trick. Areo Hotah looked uncomfortable and he was terrible at hiding it, as evidenced by the shifting from one foot to the other. He was a good and loyal man, being an ex-Marine and all, and clever enough to keep her father’s smaller businesses running, but he was no Martell. He didn’t need to connive and sneak and pretend in order to get his father’s attention.

 

When he had no reply for her, Arianne shrugged and walked in the direction of the back yard, muttering under her breath loud enough for Areo to hear: “I thought so.”

 

Past the wide, oak double doors, the narrow back patio ended in a short flight of steps and gave way to a sparsely grassed garden tinged with the dusty beige of the beach that crept ever closer towards the house year by year. Arianne followed the stone path that snaked through the grass, also peppered with sand, down a gentle slope to where a larger patio, as wide as the house, stood. In the middle of it was a fairly large swimming pool, but the children had always been more interested in the beach itself. A small gate in the middle of the far end of the patio opened up to a small set of beachwood steps that led directly to the beach. Even from up here she could hear the gentle rush and roll of the waves punctuated by the shrieking laughter of innocence. In contrast to the small chaos at the beach, the pool was calm and its colorful mosaic tiles shimmered like a kaleidoscope in the afternoon sun.

 

“Father. Uncle Oberyn,” she said as she approached the two figures sitting at her father’s usual breakfast table under a great white umbrella. The discussion halted. Oberyn got to his feet to greet his niece with a cordial hug. She pecked him on the cheek. From the coolness of his manners, she guessed that he wasn’t happy with something. Then again, when was he ever satisfied? The amount of bastard children he had fathered was proof of that. She walked over to where her father sat and kissed him on the cheek as well. “How are you feeling, Father?” she asked. Doran clicked his tongue wearily. “Same old.” His voice bore a hint of irritation. It irked her immediately, but she swallowed her pride and took the chair on his other side.

 

“What brings you here, my dear niece?”

 

She gave him a funny look, accompanied by a small laugh. “Can I not pay my beloved father a visit from time to time?” Unlike his brother, Oberyn did not have the patience to mask his suspicions. “It’s a weekday.”

 

Arianne shrugged. “So what? I’m bored.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “You, on the other hand, are a busy, busy man, aren’t you?”

 

“Enough,” said Doran, giving them both annoyed looks. He raised his trembling hands where they had laid on his lap and placed them on the armrests of his chair to push himself up. Both Arianne and Oberyn started to help him up, but he got to him first. She could only watch with a pang of regret and dread--dread that she had officially become a nuisance--as her uncle helped his brother to sit up straight in his chair. Despite the pain and anti-inflammatory meds she knew he was on, the pain was apparent. Even from her seat, she could observe how tender and red and warm his gout-inflamed limbs looked.

 

When he was settled, he turned to Oberyn. “Promise me you’ll at least give it a try.” Arianne had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. So now they were going to pretend that she wasn’t there. Her uncle snorted. “How do you think it’ll play out, Doran? Do you think the new consigliere will just roll over and let me into their fold? You’re unusually optimistic.”

 

“We have to get back in the game,” he replied calmly. “This is the best way to do it. This is the best way to get revenge for Elia.”

 

“We should be storming Manhattan and turning it inside out while we can!” Oberyn sat forward, his obsidian eyes flashing with impatience. “Not sucking it up to them and play beggar. We don’t even know who Robert will choose to replace him.” As if as an afterthought, he turned quickly to Arianne, “Jon Arryn’s dead.”

 

“I know,” she replied coolly, trying not to look at her father for his reaction.

 

Oberyn turned back to Doran but before he could speak, his brother held up his hand. “Your temper isn’t going to win us any favors. If we’re to get back in the action, we’re gonna have to take it slow. I’m not telling you to beg for any favors from them. I’m telling you to smile and lie between our teeth. Slither through the shadows like a snake in the grass. We’ve been quiet for too long. I need eyes and ears in Manhattan, and you’re the best set I got.”

 

“But--”

 

Doran shook his head, suddenly looking ten years older, and he was already old enough as it is. “I’m done for today, Oberyn. You’ll do as I say.”

 

Oberyn sat back and swallowed visibly. “It won’t end well, brother.”

 

Doran did not reply.

 

The other man took his leave from them and left in a flurry of quiet but furious strides. Arianne let the silence hang in the air between them, deciding to let her father take his time and initiate the inevitable conversation. And he did.

 

“What do you want from me, Arianne?”

 

It stung more than she had expected, so she decided to get straight to the point. “Are you really sending Uncle Oberyn away to Manhattan?”

 

He was silent for a while before replying, “Yes.”

 

“So he won’t be here, helping you to run things.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked her, looking at her tiredly. She steeled her nerves. That look had never failed to instill a sense of guilt in her; she wouldn’t let it happen this time.

 

“I just wish that you would give me more things to do, Father.” Arianne tried hard not to let her voice crack. “You know I’m not the same foolish girl that I was in high school. I’m smarter and a lot more responsible than you give me credit for.” She hesitated. “For God’s sake, I’m your daughter. Why don’t you trust me?”

 

He looked at her for a long time before replying, “I love you, Arianne. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

“And you think that by shielding me from the dirty stuff, that you’re protecting me? Because newsflash, Father--” she got to her feet, anger creeping into her voice, “--this thing that you’re doing now? Shutting me out from the things that matter: that’s what’s hurting me.” She longed to hear his reply, but she couldn’t stay or turn back; she couldn’t show weakness. She was pretty sure that was what her father was convinced about her: that she was weak for some reason. She wouldn’t show him that she was weak, no. The daughter of Doran would not give her father the satisfaction of letting him see her quivering lip as she stormed through the foyer without even giving Areo Hotah a second glance. If he could be so unfeeling as to torture his own daughter that way, well, two can play at this game.

 

But unbeknownst to her, Doran Martell did indeed feel. And as the sound of her heels faded and gave way to the sounds of the children and the sea, he heaved a heavy sigh.

 

♔

 

_Daenerys Targaryen,  the Stormborn_

 

The Florida sun bore down upon the city in a stifling heatwave, fierce despite being near the end of summer it refused to give in without a fight. The heat rippled across the tarmac and gave the air a shimmering quality. Miami was no stranger to the whims of the big friendly gas giant, but even its sun-kissed denizens were driven indoors that afternoon.

 

Daenerys Targaryen was not one of those people.

 

She was supposed to be at her high school graduation ceremony. It was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m. (but like most high school events, or anywhere really, it had only started fifteen minutes to 10); Daenerys had bailed at 9.30.

 

Her phone had buzzed incessantly for the first two hours; it stopped when she had removed her graduation robes and  draped it over her arm so that the phone could vibrate in its pocket without bothering her. The first thing she had done after leaping out of her seat in the high school auditorium was make a beeline for Frozen Delights--an ice cream parlor that had belonged to no one her brother knew, which was its primary appeal. The ice cream was mediocre at best.

 

After an hour listening to nothing but elevator music blaring over speakers that must have originated from the last decade, she left the miserably empty place (and a half-finished vanilla milkshake) and wandered aimlessly along the scorching avenues of the city. In truth, it wasn't actually an aimless stroll: she had plenty of places she had wanted to visit, like the beach for instance, or a burrito joint, or one of the many shopping malls that she liked to frequent, but every time she started in the direction of one of those places, she remembered why she couldn't go there: mostly it had something to do with the possibility of being found by her dear, beloved brother.

 

One thing was for sure though, home was definitely out of the question. Not that it was within her reach anyway.

 

No, home for her--and her brother--was somewhere else. Home was Central Park in fall when the trees were ablaze as if the family insignia: the dragon; had set them on fire. Home was the Empire State Building, and the Chrysler Tower, and the Rockefeller Center rearing their heads through rain-soaked clouds to remind the people of New York why that dragon had three heads. Home was the glittering restaurants where doors were opened for you and people you didn't even know made toasts and drank to your health.

 

Or was it?

 

The only home Daenerys had ever known was the scorching Miami sun, the gringos with their heavily modified cars and tattooed arms and machetes and rapid Spanish, and the fierce, brilliant blue of the sea and the sky on a cloudless afternoon. She understood her brother's desperation to return to New York, but not his need to amass an army to take back the city.

 

"Baratheon. The ungrateful rat's name is Robert Baratheon." His voice had seethed with a venom that she would not forget. "And Tywin Lannister, as well as his son, Jaime. Traitors, all of them!" They had wronged their father, her brother would repeat over and over again throughout the years. Thus, they had wronged them by robbing them of their birthright. Justice must be sought for their family's deaths, Daenerys. We will take back what is ours.

 

She had to admit, she hadn't exactly thought of how that could be done. For as long as she could remember, they had grown up under the foster care of a wealthy oil tycoon who had owed the family a life debt, and thus they had no real power or money whatsoever. They couldn't even use their real names; as far as Miami was concerned, she was Daenerys Mopatis. There was still a price on their heads, even after all these years, and the enemies of the family name did not exist solely in New York. She could never share her brother's conviction simply because she couldn't see a way. It's okay, you don't know anything about the world, after all. Unlike me, that was how he would laugh her skepticism off. If their guardian had felt the same sentiment, then he had done a thorough job of hiding it.

 

She didn't notice the sleek black BMW trailing her until it slowed down to a stop at the sidewalk in front of her. The familiar head of Illyrio Mopatis leaned out of the window and waved a hand while the other honked, startling her. "What are you doing out in this heat? You're going to catch fire if you're not careful."

 

Busted. But at least it was Illyrio and not her brother. She smiled wanly as she approached his car. "It's fine. I barely felt it." Which was the truth, because she hadn't broken a sweat due to the heat but from walking. He sighed. "Why didn't you answer your phone, Daenerys?"

 

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

 

"We're all worried about you." He hesitated before saying in a low voice, "Viserys is upset."

 

"You mean angry."

 

He shrugged. "Whichever way you put it, the point is, he's not happy."

 

What about my happiness? But that was a question to which neither of them could answer. "I don't want to go home just yet," she said sullenly. 'Trouble' was the mildest way to describe the situation she was now in with her brother. It hadn't always been this way between them. She had fond memories of him when she was younger. He would tell her stories of their parents, of their old penthouse, of the city. He always told her that she looked so much like their mother, and he himself resembled their father. They were all that's left of their family, and clearly they were meant to go in their image. "The Targaryens are not dead," he had whispered to her fervently once. "We will return and take back what is ours."

 

Illyrio sighed again. But, for someone who had no desire to settle down and have children of his own, he made for an extraordinarily patient parent. She imitated his exasperation and said good-humoredly enough to fool herself, "Yes, yes, I'm coming, Dad."

 

"Come on, Dany. How many times have I told you not to call me that?"

 

Though they had grown up as exiles, as Viserys had often put it, they had wanted for nothing. Illyrio's sprawling estate was more than enough room for the three of them, his housekeeping staff, and then some. He had a habit of throwing lavish dinner parties, even going so far as to having them stay the entire weekend if they wanted to. A considerably sized two-storied guesthouse stood all the way across the lawn from the rear end of the mansion that afforded a closer view of the sea. Sometimes Dany could go entire days without meeting any of his guests who stayed over. Illyrio had once joked that it had been a British habit that he had contracted from his great uncle Theodore, but Dany was sure that it was as much a fabrication as his story of a shark washing up on his front lawn.

 

A white weathered Volvo was parked on the main driveway when they pulled into it. She frowned. Only two kinds of people would leave their car so brazenly at Illyrio's doorstep that way: his closest friends, and complete strangers who didn't know better. "Is Hector off today?" she asked him before getting out of the car, her eyes still fixed on the Volvo. It had definitely seen better days. She thought she heard a hint of tension in his voice as he replied, "No. It's an old family friend." He looked her in the eye warily. "Your family, that is."

 

Before Dany could formulate a response, he had ushered her into the main foyer and told her to go straight to her room and let him and Viserys take care of that 'old family friend'. Some friend he was, if his identity had to be shrouded from her. But just as Dany had taken the first step upstairs, she heard Viserys' voice floating into the foyer from the drawing room towards them. "... she's as timid as a mouse, really. Nothing worth mentioning--oh, there you are, Dany." She remained rooted to her spot on the stairs as Viserys and a man she didn't recognize entered the foyer and stopped short upon seeing her. The man recovered quicker from the surprise, striding quickly towards her and holding out a hand. "Jorah Mormont," he said with a tight smile. There was something in his oil-slicked blonde hair, combed to the back, and the well-pressed but faded quality of his suit jacket and drab grey shirt with an unbuttoned collar that inspired both trust and suspicion.  Nevertheless, she shook his hand with a smile of her own. "Daenerys."

 

"A genuine pleasure," he replied with a sure, gravelly voice; his eyes not quite meeting hers, and yet--

 

"You were just leaving, weren't you, Jorah?" prompted Illyrio.

 

"Yes, I was," he replied tautly. No, don't-- she started to say, but he withdrew from her as quickly as he had approached. If he went, then Viserys' good cheer would go with him. Without even saying a formal goodbye to the stranger, she silently hurried up the stairs and into her room, locking the door behind her. Don't come, don't come, don't come--

 

But it wasn't to be. Just as she thought that he'd forgotten or graciously let the whole ordeal slide, there came a knock on the door. She remained silent. "Dany?" The dreaded voice of her brother. She shouldn't be this afraid of the only living relative she had left. But Viserys wasn't exactly the best of listeners; in fact he almost never did. Empathy, much less sympathy, wasn't his best suit either. He had grown up too used to being called 'little lord', lording his way through a house and a city that did not belong to him.

 

He knocked again. "Dany, I know that you can hear me. Open up, sister."

 

She was tempted to just let him knock and issue orders to her until his mouth frothed while she hid behind the safety of the door, but making him angry was something she always tried to actively avoid, and Viserys did not enjoy being kept waiting. So she got off her bed and headed for the door. Her hand, however, stayed on the door knob. I don't have to do this. I'm 19. I'm too old for this shit.

 

"No." The firmness of her voice surprised her.

 

He was silent for an uneasy while before he said, incredulity so blatant in his voice that it was disgusting: "What?"

 

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can do it from where you are." Her confidence had begun to quaver.

 

"Open. The door."

 

"I don't want to and you can't make me!"

 

He laughed in that cruel, jarring manner that Dany had taken to be synonymous with whenever he had some form of humiliating punishment meted out for her. Dread began seeping into her heart, making her wish that she had eaten her insolence before it had hatched prematurely from her mouth. "You're lucky that it's me you've chosen to defy, Daenerys."

 

"What did you do?" It was barely a whisper; there was no way he could have heard it, and yet: "Don't worry, princess, I have everything planned out for you. I did promise Mom that I would take care of you, didn't I?" He clicked his tongue. "Your regrettable behavior at your own graduation today showed me that I was right to be worried about your future. Illyrio told me that I should let you decide what you wanted to do after high school and I told him no; I love you and I care about you, and that's why I couldn't trust you to be in charge of your future."

 

Tears were falling hot and fast down her cheeks by now and she clutched the door frame with a mixture of anger and fear. She felt as if the last vestiges of control that she had of her life--that which felt so close that afternoon--was now being wrenched from her desperate grasp. And all she could do was scream soundlessly into a void of unhearing ears. "What did you do?!" Her voice trembled. She hated it, hated herself for letting her brother have his way with every aspect of her life, hated not having the strength to fight back, and hated her circumstances for not letting her succeed even once in her miserable life.

 

"I want you to look pretty tomorrow, Dany," he replied, the smirk on his face was visible even through the hard wood. "You'd want to give a good first impression to your future husband, wouldn't you?"

 


End file.
